Cate and Mycroft: The Wedding
by Rector
Summary: The Pleasure of Your Company is Requested at the Wedding of Professor Catherine Adin & Mycroft Holmes, Esquire. A Cate and Mycroft story.


**Acknowledgements**:

This is a non-profit _homage_ based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series _Sherlock_. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

#

**Note the First**:

This narrative falls between**The Education of Mycroft Holmes **and** Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree.**

#

**Note the Second**:

A [frankly remarkable] number of people have requested an account of Cate and Mycroft's wedding. Therefore, on the anniversary of their first story, an invitation …

**The Pleasure of Your Company**

**is Requested at the Wedding **

**of**

**Professor Catherine Adin &**** Mycroft Holmes, Esquire **

_The Proposal – Morning Dress and a Bishop – Low-key and Informal – A Dream of Gardens – The Best of Men – No Frills – John Gets Frocked Up – A Conspiracy of Bridesmaids – An Arrangement of Uncles – Life Moves On – Fit for a Queen – The Dress – A Bewilderment of Ties – Three Wise Men – Two Flowers – Meeting the Future – Mother Would Have Approved – A Perfect World._

#

#

Mycroft Holmes allowed the faint susurration of background noise in the Diogenes to continue unregarded as he sipped a fragrant Earl Grey, sat back, crossed his elegant legs and considered his situation.

It was Monday afternoon. On Wednesday morning, he would enter the joyous state of matrimony. Not only would marriage affect his current lifestyle, but also that of his future. Whatever came of this union with Catherine Adin for good or bad, he knew himself well enough to be certain it was a point of no return: _everything_ was about to change. By far the larger part of him welcomed this notion; embraced it entirely and gratefully, since it meant the woman who was now so comprehensively central to his life would soon gain a unique permanence. The mere thought of Cate beside him, every day; of her presence adding an unprecedented and distinctive perception to his own understanding of things, warmed him in a way that was as profoundly pleasurable as it was dreamlike.

Her laughter, her irrepressible zest for even the small things … her gentleness; her directness … her unrestrained love and affection. A sudden pressure rose in his chest as he contemplated what might have happened had Stenton been successful.

Mycroft sipped tea to redirect his thoughts. Members of the Diogenes Club were hardly noted for their delicate sensibilities and he had, for a moment, been on the brink of an indisputable quiver.

He lifted his eyebrows, nodding to himself as another aspect of his bride-to-be demanded attention. Cate's bravery; her fortitude and, yes: her old-fashioned values of integrity and honour, combined with an honesty strong enough to bend steel; would these qualitiesbe enough to cope with the inevitable strain of his work? Mycroft sighed. _The Work_. He could no more abandon his obligation to his country than he could flap his arms and fly away. A partner of his would need to be able to accept, rather than compete with it.

Fortunately, Cate was a pragmatic individual. An academic, able to rationalise her way through such abstract and indefinable concepts as duty and responsibility and he could think of no situation in their future where there might be dispute between them on this front.

And then there was the physical aspect of their relationship. His mind, travelling naturally through all of Cate's attributes, would not permit him to bypass those of the amatory. Her sensual vitality, her unaccountable enthusiasm for him; the fierceness of her passion and desire … the way she simply engulfed him, body and mind in their lovemaking … a wave of heat rolled up beneath his skin and he inhaled slowly, sitting a little more upright and considering, with some concentration, the coolness of the weather … _Pyongyang_ … the balance of payments …

Regaining a measure of poise, he returned to his Earl Grey. There was a great deal recommending this alliance, despite his concern over Cate's impulsiveness and penchant for risky behaviour. And this was where, if he were being honest, he experienced an occasional ripple of uncertainty. Cate was sometimes spontaneous to the point of recklessness, but as he valued her positive characteristics, he could scarcely quibble over a single less-agreeable aspect. Besides, he considered himself far from being a catch; were there to be a contest for the most improbable romantic partner, he'd win hands down. He still had no clear idea of why Cate wanted _him_ of all the men she could have chosen, but had arrived at the realisation the question was moot. She loved him and that was all he ever wanted to know. Whatever difficulties and problems they might face ahead were of no matter, for they would face them together and resolve them as partners.

Finishing his tea, he felt himself smile again. He couldn't help it; Cate was wonderful and for some unfathomable reason, seemed as infatuated with him as he was with her. And there really could be no doubt about his feelings: he was utterly, and quite madly, in love with her. He had all the physical signs; the pounding heart when she filled his eyes, the heat that ignited at her caress, the way she made him laugh like no other; her constancy in his thoughts, a level of physical attraction that defied logic. Cate Adin had engaged his affections to the point where he could no longer be sure his feelings towards her were even rational. His lips were shaped by an unrealised smile.

A shadow hovered in his peripheral vision: Jenkins, his usual steward, was watching him with a curiously benign expression. News of the impending matrimony was a faint buzz around the place and Mycroft had already observed several of the club's long-time employees smiling as he passed, not realising he had noticed. He straightened his face immediately, though the steward's expression didn't change as he walked away. Even the back of the man's head seemed unreasonably cheerful.

And thus Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the Diogenes in the middle of the afternoon, drinking tea with a fatuous expression on his face and wondering what colour tie he should wear to his nuptials.

The question had arisen shortly after Cate had dizzily accepted his third attempt at a proposal in which he had enlisted Sherlock's and indirectly, John's assistance. The problem that had been Stenton was gone; the collective mood was light and there was an air of frivolity when she'd finally accepted his offer.

"_Yes_," she laughed, as his brother and John watched on. "_Marry me_."

As she had already refused him twice before, the realisation that Cate had at last agreed to wed him took a moment to sink in; a smile appearing on his face even before his brain had worked it out.

His fingers tightened around hers as he turned to Sherlock, grinning foolishly. "Apparently we have a happy announcement." He could hear the note of triumph in his voice, but didn't care. Let his brother make of it what he would.

Of course it had turned out that persuading Cate to marry him was merely the first in a series of hurdles, as Anthea soon explained.

"Religious or Civil ceremony?" she asked. "Cathedral or the Town Hall? Large family bash or small intimate gathering? Full regalia with Morning grey, beribboned Rolls Royce and Times announcement, or informal affair with drinks, nibbles a drive to the airport? Are you planning a honeymoon?" she frowned at him. "You have to have a honeymoon," she said, pulling out the inevitable Blackberry. "Peru's nice, this time of year," she added. "Then there's Cate's dress, the flowers, cake, the rings … there's a lot to think about."

"I shall leave all the details to you and my magnificently practical fiancée," Mycroft smiled happily, knowing that arranging a wedding was the last thing expected of him. "However, based on my family's usual practice, it will likely be a formal occasion with Morning dress and a Bishop."

Anthea pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. "Have you mentioned this to Cate?" she asked, carefully.

"Not as such," Mycroft looked up from his Hunter, a quick smile on his face. "I'm sure she'll know what's best to do. I shall defer to her choice in these matters."

"So I'll co-ordinate everything with Cate then, shall I?" Anthea watched his face.

"I'll manage the rings," he said, thinking. It was important he showed a willingness to be involved. "Leave those to me."

"That's a huge weight off my mind," Anthea's voice was dryer than the Sahara as the Great Leader walked away with his phone to his ear. She rolled her eyes: it would be interesting to see what Cate thought about it all.

###

"Morning dress and a _Bishop_? Is he _mad_?" Cate put her coffee cup back in its saucer with a loud _clink_.

"He said you'd know what's best to do," Anthea smiled behind her Latte.

"If I have my way, it'll be the fastest civil ceremony on record, no church, no bells, no cars, no fuss, and definitely no _Bishop_," she shook her head. "And there's no way on this planet I am getting rigged-out in a big white frilly number," Cate shook her head again. "I wish we could just go and see someone, say 'I do', and fly off somewhere nice and hot for a few days," she added.

"So," Anthea straightened her face. "Not a big wedding fan, I take it?"

"Lot of extravagant and unnecessary fuss," Cate sighed. "Is it really what he wants?"

"It's a family tradition, apparently," Anthea sounded apologetic. "He specifically mentioned a Bishop."

Cate felt uncomfortable at the very notion. Her parents had been Chapel-goers, very much in the Welsh tradition, which was about as Low Church as you could get. Nor was she even remotely religious, a fact which made the entire idea of a church-affair feel wrong: it would be unthinkable to go through the whole white-wedding disaster for appearances' sake.

"And how do you feel about being drafted in to help set this up?" Cate turned to the younger woman. "You don't have to do this simply because Mycroft asked you to, you know."

"Now _you're_ the mad one," Anthea scoffed. "Not organise your wedding? This will be the most fun I've had in years," she said. "Assuming the two of you can actually agree on what you want."

"Very well," Cate finished the last of her coffee. "Here's what I would like you to put together for us," she said, ticking her requests off on her fingers.

"A civil ceremony, but perhaps somewhere less formal and dreary than the Town Hall," she said. "No more than immediate family and a few close friends, say a maximum of thirty people. Flowers would be lovely, but something basic; you know I love Gardenia, so perhaps some of those? Some good champagne and a small cake."

"What are you going to wear?"

"Oh, I can get myself an outfit somewhere in London quite easily," Cate smiled. "But it isn't going to be white and frilly. I'm sure Mycroft will have a new suit if he feels the urge; grey is best for weddings."

"Low-key, informal and immediate family and friends?" Anthea checked, tapping away on her little keyboard.

"That sounds about right," Cate nodded. It was important to show a willingness to be involved.

"He said he'd organise the rings," Anthea added as an afterthought.

Cate frowned, lifting up her hand on which rested an exquisite Art Deco diamond in platinum setting. "But I already have a perfectly gorgeous ring," she frowned. "I don't want a different one: I want to keep wearing this one."

Anthea sighed.

###

"Low-key and informal is one thing, but a civil ceremony with less than thirty guests? I cannot believe Cate would be so pedestrian. She _must_ realise my family would see anything smaller than the side-chapel of Westminster Abbey as lèse-majesté and doom our union to ruin before it even begins," Mycroft took a deep breath. "I'll have to clarify a few things with her."

"And she doesn't want a new ring," Anthea smiled without looking up. "Your fiancée said she was perfectly happy with the one she has and she'd like to keep wearing it."

"But it's not a wedding ring," Mycroft frowned, uncertain. "I thought she'd want a traditional wedding ring?"

"Why don't you two sit down and talk this whole thing through and then let me know when it's safe for me to come back into the room?" Anthea smiled, handing him a white handkerchief. "For blood or surrender," she laughed lightly, walking away before he had an opportunity to reply.

As it was his turn to cook that evening, Mycroft was in Cate's apartment, standing over a gently-bubbling pan of fragrant basil-and-tomato sauce and feeling irrationally happy. Arriving reasonably early for once, she threw her old briefcase down by the desk and sauntered into the small kitchen. Leaning back against the refrigerator, Cate folded her arms and grinned.

"I still can't get over how accomplished you look in an apron," she was in a very good mood, he could see.

"Men have always been at home with the culinary arts," he smiled airily. "Hence the reason most of the greatest chefs are male."

"Despite his conceit, there is only one great chef that concerns me," Cate walked across and rested against his chest. "And he seems rather full of himself of recent."

"Taste this," Mycroft held out a small spoon of the sauce. "More basil or more pepper?"

The taste was delicious. "_Neither_," she said, licking her bottom lip. "It's fantastic as it is."

Mycroft was suddenly focused on the trace of red on her mouth. "You have a little … just here, you have some …"

Leaning forward to remove the residue, Mycroft felt himself thrown off balance by her proximity. Blasted by unexpected compulsion, he leaned down and sought her mouth in a kiss that overpowered them both.

These days, that was all it took.

Cate's eyes turned huge and shadowed as she breathed his name, moving closer into his touch. "Don't stop, Mycroft."

"_Oh Christ, Cate_," he groaned, reaching for her blindly, wrapping her in his arms and forgetting dinner entirely.

The next thing he realised, they were in her bed and her name was the only possible word on his lips, the only sound he could gasp, as she held him in the most intimate of embraces, their breath intermingled as the race of their blood began to slow. Staring down at her in his arms, a lock of dark hair tumbling over his eyes, Mycroft Holmes knew he would die before he would give her up.

Collapsing back against the cool of the pillows, he felt marvellously untroubled and shamefully pleased with himself. A huff of amusement escaped him.

"What?" she blinked slowly, still emerging from the intensity of their coupling.

"The thought occurs that I've had more sex in the last four-months than I've had in the last ten years," he murmured, apropos of nothing.

"And is that good?" Cate lay unwound in the dim light, looking blankly up at the ceiling, her mouth curving into a deep smile. "Or are you voicing a complaint?"

Rolling slowly onto his side, Mycroft allowed his fingers to comb the hair from her eyes.

"You are very droll at times," his voice was thick with feeling as he trailed fingertips across her eyebrows and the curve of an eyelid. "Definitely _not_ a complaint," he whispered, brushing the tip of his nose down her cheek.

"Oh, _good_," her voice was husky as she reached up to catch his fingers, bringing them down to her mouth. "Want some more?"

They ate a very late dinner, dressed in robes, sitting in the kitchen and drinking an outstanding Burgundy. Cate could not remember a time in her life that she'd felt so content with everything around her.

"We need to discuss this wedding," Mycroft poured her another glass of red. "Anthea tells me you're not terribly keen on a large gathering."

"Do we have to talk about this tonight?" she was plaintive. "All I want to do is sit here and watch you being wonderful."

"I'm not doing anything except be here with you," Mycroft smiled.

"_Mmmm_ …" she sighed, resting her chin in her hand and staring at him. "Exactly."

"The _wedding_," he picked up her other hand and pressed her knuckles to his lips. "_Our_ wedding."

"I don't like big churches," she said, sipping her wine. "Or even small ones, really."

"_Calvinist_," Mycroft teased.

"_Atheist_," Cate wove her fingers through his. "I follow no establishment faith and if I had to pretend to the contrary, I would be uncomfortable."

"You're serious?" he nibbled her fingers.

"Completely serious, darling. Why?" she asked, curiously. "Does atheism worry you?"

He smiled, shaking his head.

"If you have such strong objections to a religious service," he conceded, "then we don't need to have one, though I warn you now," he added, looking at her from beneath raised brows. "This will not be the last we hear of it."

"If you can handle paganism, I'm sure I can handle your family," Cate smiled, then paused, delicately. "Are there many more like Sherlock?"

Mycroft laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach; such violent activity after a heavy meal was hardly advisable, but he couldn't help it.

"_No_, my darling," he shook his head, still grinning. "_None_ of them are like Sherlock, though there might be one or two that resemble me, or at least," he corrected himself. "Parts of me."

Instantly intrigued, Cate leaned forward. "Like you?" she breathed. "There are more Holmes' like you and I'm only now finding this out?"

"And what about your family?" Mycroft leaned forward too, breathing in the scent of her skin and the warmth of her breath and, _dear God_, he knew he was lovesick … his heart pounded him into dizziness. He swam through the heady sensation as his system righted itself.

"Are you alright?" Cate frowned. His eyes had glazed for a moment. "Glass of water?"

Mycroft held her hand, bringing it to his mouth as he pressed his lips to the soft skin.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I seem to be in an excessively emotional state and with your closeness, I … lose my ... _I_ _can't help_ … "

"I love you beyond sense, too," Cate's whisper was barely audible as she poured him some more red. "It's just as well we're getting married before we scandalise everyone who knows us. So. Where _are_ we going to get married?"

Clearing his throat, Mycroft straightened. "If not a church, then you'd prefer a civil ceremony? Somewhere significant but without the religious overtones? If I deny my family a church affair, I cannot deny _any_ of them an opportunity to attend the wedding they've all sworn would never take place."

"If you are willing to compromise on the venue, how can I possibly refuse you your family?" she asked. "How many do you want to invite?"

"If we keep it to my close family, no more than fifty or sixty, probably, assuming, of course, that everyone decides to attend," he paused. "Tell me about your family, darling Cate," he savoured the dark red wine. "All I really know is that your parents are dead and you don't have regular contact with anyone else."

"There are some ancient aunties and uncles on my father's side, a few cousins, but I have no idea where they might be now," Cate drew gentle fingertips across the bones of his hand. "My mother had a couple of sisters, but they're gone now too, and I never kept in touch with any cousins on that side either – our areas of interest were just too far apart. I have no knowledge of them anymore, although I'm sure they could be found if we really tried."

Mycroft smiled internally. He could have Cate's entire bloodline mapped out and all her living relatives contacted within a day, if she so desired.

"Do you want me to have my people try?"

Shaking her head, Cate demurred. "It's one of the reasons I dislike big weddings," she said. "People you never see from one year to the next get dragged into what should be a private and happy experience, and everyone ends up miserable and waiting to leave," she paused, brushing his skin with her own. "So no; I think there is little need to involve my cousins in an event which will mean nothing to them, but a great deal now, to me."

Mycroft leaned back, assessing her expression. "But there's someone, isn't there?" he smiled. "There _is_ someone you'd like to have witness the event?"

"My sister," Cate screwed one eye closed and looked at him dubiously. "_Maybe_," she added. "But it's been a while since we got together and she's … she's very different from me."

Fascinated, Mycroft moved closer. "_Sister_? You have a _sister_ and this is the first I hear of her?"

"Neve is younger than me by three years," Cate sipped her wine. "She has a mob of teenaged children and she's a …" she paused, looking him straight in the eye. "Hippy."

"Your younger sister is a Hippy?" Mycroft's eyes widened fractionally. "She lives where? In a commune?"

"For a while she lived in a yurt on some farm in Cornwall, but then the children started to arrive and she moved around, into ever bigger places as her family expanded."

"And how far has it expanded to date?" Mycroft was trying to keep a smile from his face and not being terribly successful.

"There are six of them to my knowledge, so far," Cate scratched her head. "The eldest, Leo, plays fiddle in some band and he's pretty good, by all accounts. Neve had him when she was eighteen, so he's got to be nearly twenty by now. Then there's the twins, Lily and Rose; they're eighteen. After the girls, there's Girard, sixteen; Quinn, who's fourteen and the last one is …" frowning with thought, Cate paused, wrinkling her forehead. "I always forget the last one … _Tomas_," she smiled, remembering. "He'd be almost thirteen or so, I think."

"Apart from raising her clan, has your sister held any kind of formal employment?" Mycroft was curious for any information about his potential relatives-by-marriage. Of course, he could get everything on record within a few hours, but he wanted Cate's perspective.

"She does some work for _Atout France_ and the French National Tourist Office, I believe," Cate thought back. "Neve translates tourist materials between English and French and offers an emergency translation helpline on both sides of the Channel. She's really much cleverer than I am," she paused.

"Then your sister much have been something of a _wunderkind_," Mycroft rubbed her fingers affectionately. "To be cleverer than you," he paused. "Unless you were a child prodigy too?

Making a face, Cate scoffed. "Compared to my sister, I am depressingly normal and unexciting," she said. "When the children arrived, I wanted to help her financially, but she said the very last thing she would take was money and the only gifts she would ever let me give her are things I've made with my own hands," Cate smiled. "She has several of my best paintings. I keep telling her to sell them and I'll paint her some more, but she won't," Cate shrugged. "The only other thing she ever let me do was dig her garden and plant some herbs."

"And is there a _Mr_ Neve?" Mycroft wondered.

Cate shook her head. "Nope," she said. "Like me, Neve's never felt the need for anything as formalised as a marriage, _in fact_," she looked at him assessingly, "each of the children ..." she paused again, with a different kind of smile, "has a different father. She's even nicknamed her family 'the United Colours of Benetton'."

Oh, but this was too riveting for words. Mycroft felt his smile become unaffected delight at the continued revelations. Cate's closest relative was as nonconformist as herself and he felt a compelling desire to meet the entire family.

"Your sister is a proponent of free love?"

"Neve's always been a law unto herself," Cate shrugged. "But her children are some of the most balanced and thoughtful young things I've met in a long time and, as a teacher, I've seen a lot who aren't."

"Do they all still live with their mother?" Mycroft sipped his wine.

"The last I heard, Leo was thinking about moving in with his girlfriend and the twins were about to start at Reading University, each on a full scholarship. Lily wants to be a curator in the Arts and Rose wanted to study music; the entire family is musical."

_Just as you are, my darling_, he thought. _It runs in your entire family_.

"Girard is interested in engineering, and Quinn was making sounds about studying architecture if she could get a scholarship, but I'm not sure what Tomas is into; he was a little young to have decided anything the last time I saw him."

She looked at Mycroft's face: he seemed particularly jaunty considering he was about to become related to an unruly tribe of free spirits.

"When will I have the opportunity of meeting them all?" he wanted to know. "Will they come to the wedding if you ask? They must come."

"I don't know. Neve might, but I can't vouch for the children," Cate stretched her arms over her head, tired now. "If it's not _too_ orthodox, she might come."

"Orthodox?" Mycroft smiled at her, watching as Cate's muscles moved sinuously beneath her robe and was half tempted to take this conversation back to bed.

"Church, hymns, bells, convention, suits … Neve's never done those things terribly well," Cate yawned, needing to sleep soon. She had a long day ahead writing examination papers and chairing a research round-table.

"I had thought…" Mycroft rubbed his nose. "Perhaps a garden party instead of a formal reception?"

Her smile was blinding. "A garden-party is a _brilliant_ idea," she rested the fingertips of one hand against his face. "Even for a man with such a magnificent mind as you, that idea is a _triumph_."

Mycroft felt a strange sensation in his chest. "_Magnificent_?" he found himself oddly self-conscious beneath her gaze.

"Oh, my _love_," her voice was gentle, her eyes soft. "Only you would ask such a thing."

"Then I must be at my brilliant best in order to maintain such a fiction," his eyes glowed a scintillating blue. "Have I asked you to marry me recently?"

"Once or twice, I believe," Cate laughed, only to have her smile stretch into another yawn. "Sorry," she murmured, rubbing her eyes. "I'm a little tired for a reason that has everything to do with a certain Government employee."

"Your Government is here to serve," Mycroft stood, lifting her up to him, he smiled into her hair, breathing her in. "Time for sleep, then."

"I shall dream of gardens," Cate's smile was magical.

###

"I won't ask you to repeat the question," Sherlock was in his usual seat at 221B. "But I will ask you _why_."

"Why I am asking my only brother to act as my Best Man on what will undoubtedly be the first and last occasion of my marriage?" Mycroft looked baffled. "I would have considered the reason obvious."

"Yes, but why _me_?" Sherlock scowled. "Other than the fact I am indeed your only brother, why would you want _me_ to undertake this role, fraught as it will undoubtedly be with all manner of angst and drama requiring a level of responsibility and, _dear God_, maturity?"

Mycroft looked down at the shiny toe of his black classic wing-tipped brogue and sighed quietly. "Because the only person I really want standing beside me on the day is you, Sherlock," he said softly. "I would not be taking this step in my life without your furtherance and undertaking," he looked up. "Will you?"

"Of course," Sherlock almost smiled. "Although I draw the line at a Morning suit, not even for you will I adorn myself in such absurd garb."

"Then you may put your mind at ease," Mycroft raised his eyebrows as his lips curved. "My darling affianced has made an identical caveat …" he paused. "Cate has even insisted that the ceremony be conducted beyond the realm of the establishment."

Sherlock blinked, a slow smile dawning on his face. "Cate has refused to get married in a church? How _marvellous_, Mycroft, I am liking this match for you more and more."

Looking anything but unhappy, the elder Holmes wiggled his foot. "I've promised her a garden-party," he said. "Although I neglected to mention which garden I had in mind."

###

"Are you quite _insane_ or is it that you simply don't care that everyone will think you're not really interested in marrying Mycroft?" Anthea stared at her as if she'd just admitted to being a closet street mime.

"I told you I could find myself a perfectly suitable wedding outfit in town," Cate heaved a short sigh. "And I distinctly remember saying that it wasn't going to be white or frilly, so what's wrong with this one?"

This _particular_ one, was a neat silk suit in a faintly floral motif. Three-quarter sleeves, bolero jacket with a 1950's swirling skirt. Cate thought it looked quite smart and said so.

"For a meeting with your VC, it'd be smart," Anthea shook her head sorrowfully. "But for your wedding? _Dear God_, Cate," the younger woman put her hands over her eyes and sounded distraught. "You need help."

"And what do you suggest I wear, then?" Cate scowled. "I warn you now, do not attempt to get me into frills."

"Okay, so no frills," Anthea tapped on her Blackberry. "But it wouldn't hurt to actually try on a couple of wedding-dresses, would it?" she asked. "There's a decent place the next street over," she added, smiling.

"You're never going to stop going on about this until I do, are you?"

The pretty brunette raised her eyebrows and looked vaguely penitent.

Cate conceded. "Well, come on then," she sighed, long-suffering. "Lead me to the dresses."

There were hundreds of them. Mostly various shades of white, but with racks of different pastels, not to mention great swags of creams, ivories and magnolia. There had to be a greater yardage of frothy pale stuff in this one shop that there was tea in China. And then there were the rooms of bridesmaid's dresses … it was a nightmare.

"As you were persistent enough to finagle me into this place, I'll try on any three dresses you want me to try on," Cate thought that was fair. "But no more than three and then you'll have to buy me a gin-and-tonic to get over the shock. Possibly two. Large ones."

"Then you better sit down while I have a talk with the manager … I have something quite specific in mind."

Flicking through one of the – wedding-related – magazines, Cate made unhappy faces as she trawled through page after page of glossy advertisements for cars and flowers and hotels and God-knows-what-else. Thank goodness Mycroft had seen sense.

"Here we go: this one first, I think," Anthea grabbed her hand, leading her into an outsized dressing room where she was rapidly removed from her street-clothes and stood on a small plinth as a white edifice was lowered on her body from above.

"Close your eyes until I say,"

If it meant she didn't have to see any of these overblown horrors, Cate was happy to comply. She felt her arms being wriggled into sleeves, a long zip running softly up her back and the sensation of her entire body being wrapped snugly in something close-fitting.

"Okay, you can open them now," Anthea's voice was over to one side.

Looking straight ahead into a massed bank of tall mirrors, Cate saw herself encased head-to-foot in a Belgian lace affair with a row of pearls running down from throat to floor. It was hideous.

"Get this thing off me," she growled, impatient to be free of the monstrosity.

"Makes you look really slim around the middle though," Anthea was already unzipping the dress. "Try this one now," she said, lassoing Cate with another pale creation.

This one had the same clinging bodice from just above her bust all the way down to her hips, but then frothed out into a flamenco-blanca. If she had been up for a place on _Dancing with the Stars_, it might have worked, but as it was, her eyes closed automatically from the outrage being done to them.

"Off. _Now_," she muttered, waving her arms like a penguin. It was duly removed, although she heard Anthea's sigh of fortitude all down the passage as she walked away.

"Last one," Mycroft's assistant returned with yet another armful of flouncery. Closing her eyes for what she hoped would be the final time, Cate endured as this third frock was eased down over her head. It felt a little lighter than the previous two.

She opened her eyes.

_Oh_.

Not even white, but a very pale grey strapless silk that clung to her shape from chest to hip before slinking down to the floor. The fabric was sufficiently delicate that she didn't feel corseted by it, and it did show off her shape quite nicely. Best of all though, it wasn't _white_.

"You don't actively hate this one, huh?" Anthea was watching Cate's face.

"Not _actively_," she agreed. "It has possibilities."

"Needs to be taken in a bit around the waist," the brunette mused. "Needs a little more attention."

"You are determined to get me into a proper dress, aren't you?" Cate was still examining herself in the mirror.

"You bet."

Cate looked down at her feet. At the place where her feet usually were. "Not sure I like all this swishing stuff," she said, swishing.

"No frills, no swishing, no white," Anthea crossed her arms. "Anything else? I assume you'll be forsaking the usual veil and train?"

The look Cate gave her had Mycroft's assistant leaning back against the nearest wall trying to breathe and laugh at the same time.

"Okay, I get the message," Anthea inhaled deeply and was suddenly serious. "Do you trust me, Cate?"

Standing upright, Cate was surprised by the question. She'd never really thought about Anthea's trustworthiness before. Mycroft trusted her and so she had, without thought.

"Actually, I do, rather," her words were quiet but genuine.

"Then will you leave your dress to me? Let me do this for you?"

"Do you really want to?"

"You have no idea how much I want to make you look wonderful for Mycroft," Anthea paused, almost as if afraid she was going to say too much. "He deserves the very best, you know."

"Oh, _Anthea_," Cate sighed, stepping across to the younger woman and sliding arms around her neck. "He does deserve the best which makes me wonder why he's settling for me when he could have anyone he wanted," she stepped back and their eyes met. "_Anyone_," she repeated.

There was an understanding.

Cate kissed her softly on the cheek. "I trust you with my life," she said.

Anthea wrapped her arms around the older woman and hugged tight. "_Adopt me_," she whispered, grinning, shaking with laughter.

"Ask me again in a year or so," she laughed too. "I trust you," she added. "Do whatever you think is going to be for the best, but no frills _please_," she added, hopefully.

"No frills, I promise, but I might need some measurements … can I get those now?"

"Okay, I think measurements are acceptable, but then your clever little phone is going to find us the nearest pub, agreed?"

"Tape measure!" Anthea called, all business.

###

"I don't have a brother and my father died far too young," she said, standing beside him in the kitchen of his flat as he made them both tea. "I'd ask my sister, but I can't be sure she'd be willing to do it," Cate stroked her fingertips along the edge of the bench top as she looked at him. "I could ask several people from work, but I wanted to ask you first," she added, taking the hot mug John handed her.

"So let me get this right," he said, sipping the tea carefully. "You're asking me if I'd act in lieu of your father and stand up with you at your wedding; that's what you want, is it?"

"I doubt there'd be much to do, really," Cate went to sit in Sherlock's chair. "We're not having a church event, in fact Mycroft suggested a garden party, which would be lovely, I think," she added. "But it would be nice to have someone to lean on if I get a fit of the vapours, especially since you have the medical wherewithal to deal with such things," she grinned. "Will you do it?"

The blonde man sat back, thinking. Sherlock had already agreed to be Mycroft's best man, and there was nothing in the rules that said it _had_ to be a relative.

"Yes," he smiled, cheerfully. "I'll stand up with you at your wedding."

"_Brilliant_," Cate grinned again. "This means I get to buy you a new suit."

"I don't need a new suit," John raised his eyebrows.

"Didn't say you did," she leaned forward. "_But_ if I have to get frocked-up, then nobody escapes the noose."

"You said noose," John looked intrigued. "Freudian slip?"

"Did I say noose?" Cate looked untroubled. "Must have meant _abuse_," she smiled. "Anthea's having a blast."

"Will, _er_, will she be going, do you think?" he seemed a little diffident.

"Are you kidding? Anthea _not_ be there?" Cate shook her head. "Not even if Russia and the United States declared open war would she miss this wedding," she looked thoughtful. "Although Mycroft might have to, if it came to that."

"So what do you want me to wear?" John sighed. "Though I warn you now, I will not have anything remotely to do with frills."

Cate's smile got even bigger. "If I weren't so impossibly in love with Mycroft, you be a hot option, in that case," she laughed. "I can't abide anything frilly either, so we're safe there."

"So what do you want me to wear?"

"I'll get you something in a grey," Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Tape measure?"

John shook his head. "You are not going to measure me."

She smiled.

###

They had decided to drive down one afternoon, stay overnight at Plymouth, and then go onto St Ives the following morning. As the sleek black Jaguar ate up the miles between London and her sister, Cate felt an increasing tension.

"I haven't seen her in a long time," her fingers rested on his thigh as he drove. "This feels surreal."

"I promise to be on my best behaviour," Mycroft laid his fingers between hers. "Did you tell Neve I'd be accompanying you?"

"Oh yes, that's not an issue at all," Cate murmured. "It's simply difficult to think of all these people coming together for our wedding," she paused, turning to him. "Our _wedding_, Mycroft. Doesn't that sound incredibly strange?"

"Not strange, darling, _momentous_," he brought her hand to his lips, grazing the soft skin. "And I for one, intend to enjoy every minute of it."

"Such a romantic," Cate laughed as she looked out the window, watching the countryside fly past.

Finding Neve's home was a little tricky as the directions were on the vague side, but eventually, the Jaguar's tyres crunched along a gravelled lane overhung with sycamore branches of early spring growth; the pale leaves unfurling as the season advanced.

At the end of the lane was an old grey-stone house, Old and _enormous_. To Cate's eyes, it looked like an old mill-house; there was definitely an industrial feel to the place.

"This is it," she nodded, stepping out of the car into the sunshine.

Almost as soon as her feet hit the gravel, the large, arched wooden door at the front of the house was flung open and several young people charged out, grins all over their faces.

"Aunt _Catie_!" two, almost identical young women with bouncing reddish curls and pale skin ran over, enveloping her in a single massive hug.

"Yeah, yeah, c'mon _guys_," a lanky young man, as dark as the girls were fair, waited impatiently. "She's my aunt _too_, y'know."

"_Girard_?" Cate's voice was astonished as the boy's long skinny arms hugged her close. "When did you get to be so incredibly tall?"

"Last year, Aunty Cat," Girard sniggered. "Around the same time Lily and Rose grew boobs."

"We did not just grow boobs last year, you insufferable little pest," one of the girls smacked her brother's shoulder hard enough to make him sway.

"_Ahem_," Mycroft's quiet cough was to remind the young people they were not entirely _en famille_ just yet; a lack of discretion _might_ be regretted later … He stood there, tall and unconcerned in an uncreased charcoal Kilgour and a camel driving coat. He smiled politely.

"And you have to be Aunty Cate's suitor!" one of the girls turned and favoured him with a ravishing smile in return. "I'm Lily and that's my sister Rose, and hell spawn over there is our brother Girard," she waltzed to Mycroft's side, sliding her arm through his. "Come on in; mother told us to be on our best behaviour so's not to frighten you off."

"_Lily_," Cate groaned, closing her eyes. "_Please_ be nice to Mycroft; he's from a gentle, well-bred background and not used to consorting with a herd of wildebeest."

Taking his other arm, Rose patted the back of his hand. "Don't worry," she spoke confidentially. "Everyone's just so excited to have a wedding in the family that we're all a bit giddy with anticipation."

The twins were young, lovely and ingenuous, and Mycroft found himself smiling "Take me to your leader," he said.

Watching her betrothed escorted thusly, Cate raised her eyebrows and smiled. This was going to be an interesting day. She walked into her sister's house.

"This way, Mr Holmes," Girard beckoned Mycroft through the front door, walking ahead of him down a wide passage papered with an old William Morris design. The building had seen better days, but it still exuded a certain charm and style. Mycroft found himself wondering what kind of woman he was about to meet.

A shriek of laughter erupted from an open doorway ahead, followed shortly by a hurled cushion which flew through the air to bang against the wall of the passage. More shouts and screams of helpless laughter echoed around as a second cushion landed on the floor.

"We come in peace," Cate spoke loud enough to be heard over the general racket, which quieted as soon as her words had been understood.

"Catie, come in and rescue me from these ungrateful serpents," a laughing female voice sighed, quieting her breathing as Cate walked around the corner and saw Neve for the first time in four years.

Her sister never seemed to age, or perhaps Neve's particular manner of dealing with life meant that the things which usually aged people, slid away from her without residual affect. At the moment, she was flopped down into an overstuffed armchair, her bundled-up hair already threatening to come down, her cheeks slightly pink from the pillow-fight with her two youngest offspring.

Quinn and Tomas were in various poses of collapse, each panting and grinning, and each clutching a weaponised cushion.

"_Cate_," Neve jumped to her feet, throwing an arm around her older sister's neck, kissing her soundly on both cheeks. "You are looking very well," she said, smiling. "Very, _very_ well, in fact," she added, hitching up an eyebrow. "One might go so far as to say radiant," she laughed. "You look happy."

"I am deliriously happy, and I want you to meet the cause of my delirium," Cate took her sister's arm and turned her to face Mycroft.

"This is Mycroft Holmes, the only man sufficiently insane to keep asking me to marry him." Smiling into his slightly widened gaze, Cate took his hand.

"Mycroft, I'd like you to meet Neve Alis Adin, my younger sister, my partner-in-crime and my hope for humanity."

Observing the sisters side-by-side, enabled Mycroft to see at once the similarities and the great differences between them.

Of much the same height, where Cate was dark-haired and dark-eyed, Neve was much lighter, almost blonde, clearly from many hours spent in strong sunlight. Her hair was also considerably longer and currently tied up in an unruly pile with a black ribbon and … Mycroft was not positive, but he could swear the woman was using two ball-point pens as pins to keep her hair up. Where Cate's eyes were a lustrous brown with edges of jade, Neve's were a much more solid green, with hazel flecks. Cate's skin was soft, unlined and creamy-pale from her indoor occupation; Neve was tanned and freckled, with sun lines at her eyes so often closed by the glare of the sun. Cate's clothes were London-cultured, Neve's were a grab-bag of mismatched colours and fabrics. Both sisters were slender but athletically-strong.

Each had a pleasing smile which they were using to a very great effect as he stood, absorbing them both.

"When you have gazed your fill of our wondrous beauty, Mr Homes, would you like some tea?"

He realised he was still holding the younger sister's hand.

Blinking, Mycroft smiled. "I do apologise, Ms Adin" he stood up straighter. "I am still coming to terms with the fact that Cate has any close family at all. Please forgive me for staring and do, please, call me Mycroft."

Laughing in the same way that Cate did, Neve took his arm. "I'm teasing, Mycroft," she smiled. "Call me Neve. Let's have some tea."

Strolling into an absolutely massive old kitchen with a darkly-shining slate-floor, Cate was struck by the huge proportions of the rooms. "What was this place, Neve?" she asked. "It strikes me as having industrial overtones."

"I believe it to have been a master-miner's dwelling, so close, as it is to one of the major Cornish slate-mines of Victorian England." Mycroft relaxed in a polished captain's chair at a proportionally huge kitchen table. The fragrance of tea made him feel suddenly very much at home in this place.

"Someone did their homework before they came down," Neve looked intrigued. "And, you're quite right, by the way. This place was the Mining overseer's house: according to local parish records he and his wife had twelve children," she shook her head. "Those Victorians never did anything by halves." Lifting her gaze to her sister, Neve smiled again. "Will you stay for the night?" she asked. "I have a lovely big bedroom for you, with a view down towards the coast," she said. "It's nice and private," she added, smiling into her cup. "Noise doesn't carry in these old rooms; the walls are too thick. You wouldn't be disturbed."

Exchanging a wide-eyed look with her sister, Cate barely managed to keep a straight face.

"Another time," she was apologetic. "We only came down for a flying visit to find out if you and the mob wanted to come to the wedding. There's a little time yet if you can't make up your mind, but I can arrange transport for everyone and find you a really nice hotel."

Neve laughed. "Darling, thank you for the offer, and indeed," she looked around at the several intensely interested faces watching her. "I think I have to say yes to your invitation or risk all-out civil-war," she smiled again. "And don't worry about transport or accommodation," she added. "I'm not quite as destitute as once I was; I can manage a little family trip to London quite nicely."

"I understand your eldest son is not here at the moment?" Mycroft was taking in the grand architecture of the old house. It looked solid enough to withstand an earthquake. "Are you able to contact him with the details or would you like us to try?"

"Leo is on tour with the band for the next two weeks," Neve wrinkled her forehead, thinking. "I'm sure he'll be calling me soon, so I can ask him then what he wants to do, but you know how much he likes his Aunt Catie," she said. "I'm fairly certain he'll want to come too."

"Are you going to have any bridesmaids, Aunt Cate?" Rose was the epitome of innocence. "Lily and I were wondering, that was all."

Cate could feel their gaze on her face. Not wanting to quash such frank desire, but at the same time, unwilling to commit herself to exactly the type of wedding from which she most shrank, Cate turned to Mycroft for support.

Smiling broadly, he crossed his legs and sat back, sipping his tea, a particularly amused light in his face.

Narrowing her eyes at such arrant cowardice, Cate's expression promised reprisal at some unspecified later time.

"It's only going to be a very informal affair," she began, opening her hands in explanation. "I wasn't … we _weren't_ …"

"You know you can have any kind of a wedding you desire, _my love_," Mycroft's voice smoothed like warm chocolate. "You can have as many bridesmaids as you want. You only need say …"

Turning slowly to meet his silently laughing expression, Cate felt the rise of frustration. _Mycroft, you utter shit_.

"Because, you know," Lily was leaning forward on the table, her fingertip drawing complicated arabesques on the plain wooden surface. "If you _wanted_ a bridesmaid …"

"Or two bridesmaids," Rose added swiftly.

"Yes, or even _two_ bridesmaids," Lily lifted her blue-green gaze to her aunt. "Then you know we'd be more than willing to help out our favourite Aunty Cate."

Turning to Neve, Cate lifted her eyebrows, but found no quarter there either; her sister was wearing the same laughing expression as Mycroft.

It was a conspiracy.

"You two didn't have a little chat about this before we came down here, by any chance, did you?" Cate looked between them as her fiancé and sister stared at one another over the top of their teacups.

"I have no idea at all what you mean," Neve put her cup down. "Now tell your favourite nieces you're not going to have any bridesmaids."

She knew when she was outnumbered.

"I might be able to cope with one or two bridesmaids," I expect," Cate acknowledged defeat as gracefully as she could.

"_Aunty Cate!_" two identical squeals preceded an avalanche of teenage neicehood as Lily and Rose attempted to hug her simultaneously.

It was only later that evening, in their Plymouth hotel room, that Cate enlightened Mycroft as to the all-encompassing nature of affianced retribution.

Groaning as she tantalised him with slow kisses and heart-pounding caresses, every time he held her tight, she ceased all movement. Every time he relaxed, Cate found a new way to torture him. It was agony. It was toe-curling. He never wanted it to stop.

"I can have as many bridesmaids as I want, _huh_?" she whispered at his ear, catching the soft flesh with her teeth and simply breathing. The acute twist of his body beneath hers, the pillow-smothered sounds of his anguish, made her smile.

"How could you possibly disappoint them? … _ahh_ …" he tensed again as she nibbled the skin under his ear and allowed her fingers to brush down the centre of his belly. Cate could feel the clenched muscles below his skin tremble as she stroked them.

"Besides … _Catie_ …" in an unexpected shift, Mycroft rolled them both, so that she now rested beneath his chest. "You said you wouldn't deny me my family," he murmured, taking his time with her lips in order to have her shivering under his touch.

"But the girls aren't your f-family," Cate stuttered as his mouth did strange things to her pulse.

"They will be soon," he promised, wrapping her up in his arms and effectively ending the conversation.

###

"There is no need for you to feel the slightest bit uneasy, darling," Mycroft smiled reassuringly. "My uncles merely happened to be in town to see their investment people and I felt it might break the ice if you met them before the rest of the family."

"Happy to meet any of your relatives, my love, and I'm not the slightest bit anxious about it, why," she asked, unconcerned. "Is there a need for me to be worried?"

His answer arrived a fraction too slowly for her liking.

"Not a thing; they're both entirely civilised and quite pleasant … once you get to know them."

This did not sound like a vote of confidence. She turned to catch his eyes.

"Tell me straight, Mycroft," Cate spoke slowly, so he wouldn't be able to prevaricate. "Is there anything I need to watch out for this afternoon when we have tea with your father's brothers?"

"Not a thing, my love," his smile was authentic as he brought her hand to his lips. "They have rooms at the Connaught and will be waiting for us in _Espelette_ at precisely four this afternoon. Shall we meet there, or do you want me to have the car wait for you somewhere? What are your plans until then?"

Smiling, she blinked slowly. "As I'm not sure where I'm going to be, it makes no sense for the car to pick me up – let's meet at the Connaught instead, just before four. I'm going to buy a wedding present," her mouth curved.

His eyes met hers. "For someone I know?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"His tastes are very similar to yours," Cate nodded thoughtfully. "Any idea what he might like?"

A dozen ideas flashed though his head. Not all of them suitable for discussion in a public place. "I'm sure whatever you choose will be wonderful," he said, diplomatically.

"I'm sure he'll _tell_ me whatever I choose is wonderful, which is not quite the same thing," Cate smiled at him knowingly.

Mycroft felt his pulse give a small jump as he realised once again that she was his; that this woman had agreed to let him share everything in her life. It was still hard to believe.

"Because anything _you_ choose will be wonderful, darling of my heart," he smiled. "I have to return to my office and deal with an excess of correspondence that appears to have sprouted in the few hours I've been truant," he slid his arms around her shoulders and pulled Cate against him. "Enjoy your shopping expedition." He brushed his lips against hers. "See you at four."

###

The Connaught Hotel, one of London's, and therefore one of the world's finest hotels was fairly close to Mycroft's townhouse in Culross Street; Cate wondered why he hadn't invited his uncles there for tea: she would happily have played the traditional hostess. Perhaps he felt that a first meeting on neutral territory might be advisable, especially if there were to be any discomfort. She wondered if this were to be the case; did Mycroft imagine there might be friction between them? It was an actuality she hadn't considered. But what if they really didn't like her or approve of the marriage? What then?

For the first time, Cate felt a little uncomfortable; she took a deep breath to calm the one or two incipient butterflies in her stomach as her cab drew to a smooth halt outside the main entrance to the hotel and the liveried Doorman assisted her from the car. Thanking him, she looked at her watch. It was exactly four minutes to four.

Dressing for the occasion, she had opted for a mid-calf plain dark-blue knitted dress with a soft tan leather belt and matching boots. As the day had been forecast cold, she had also enveloped herself in a voluminous dark-green cashmere coat, with tan leather gloves and a bright Hermès scarf. It was comfortable, she looked entirely presentable, and she felt good, although her butterflies seemed to have donned clogs.

Walking into the entranceway of _Espelette_, she was about to tell the _Maître d'_ she was in a party of four, when she saw the three of them sitting about thirty feet away in a circle of fawn leather club chairs. Mycroft raised a hand as he spotted her, then stood as she walked to him.

"_Darling_," he leaned down and kissed her gently, enjoying the scent of cold fresh air on her skin. He smiled. "Had fun?"

"Immense fun, thank you," she smiled back as he turned her to face the two others in the tea-party. Cate took a deep breath as the butterflies turned to ski-boot dancing hippos. Big fat ones.

The two men had also stood upon her arrival and were assessing her in much the same way that Mycroft would examine a particularly novel postage stamp.

Both tall and straight-backed, despite their advanced years; one, clearly the older of the pair with snowy-white hair cut in the military style, faintly tanned skin and the same grey-blue eyes as Sherlock. No question of a relationship there. The other man was several years the younger, his hair more of a dark grey, going white at the temples. His eyes were a clear grey and his smile shone from a tanned and heavily-line face. That all three men were related was obvious.

"Darling, I'd like to introduce you to two stalwarts of the Holmes clan," Mycroft paused, indicating the elder of the pair. "My father's older brother, General, Sir George Tancred Holmes, late of Her Majesty's Royal Welsh Fusiliers, and," he turned to the other, "my father's younger brother, Rudyard St John Holmes, Esquire, Gentleman farmer, known to everyone, as you of all people would understand, as 'Kim'."

"_Gentlemen_," he paused again, sliding his arm around her shoulders and squeezing her gently. "May I present Professor Catherine Adin of the University College of London, and my wife, soon-to-be." Cate looked up and saw such an expression of satisfaction on his face that the boot-stomping hippos vanished in a puff of adoration. If he was so cheerful, then nerves be damned. She smiled, wonderfully happy.

"Delighted to finally meet some more of Mycroft's family," she said, offering her hand to the uncles. "Royal Welsh?" she turned to the General and smiled again. "Did Mycroft tell you my people are from Wales?"

"Oh?" George tilted his head. "_Lleoliad yng Nghymru?_ Es i wasanaethu yn _Wrecsam_," he raised his eyebrows, questioningly.

_Just like Mycroft_, she realised; always testing people. Her expression turned playful. "Wrecsam yn iawn hyd nes eu bod yn rhoi y fyddin yno. Fy mod yn hanu o Gaergybi," she replied, grinning.

General Sir George looked momentarily surprised, then laughed abruptly.

"As you know, my love, I am not yet conversant with your barbaric tongue, as, I suspect, neither is Uncle Kim. Do enlighten the undereducated ones."

"I inquired from where in Wales your young lady originated, intimating that I knew Wrexham, having been officially stationed there for some years," the General rested his elbows on the chair arms and linked his fingers. He looked pleased.

_Just like Mycroft;_ she smiled again.

"At which point I was reliably informed that Wrexham was fine until the army moved there, and that your professor is from the dark isle of Anglesey."

"Beautiful part of the country," the younger Holmes uncle joined the conversation. "They have the most marvellous apple orchards there; bought several scions for my own Catshead cookers. Marvellous things," he nodded absently, reaching for a pipe in his pocket.

"I'm afraid they won't allow you to smoke that in here, Kim," Mycroft looked charitable.

Uncle Kim sighed and rolled his eyes, clamping the old pipe defiantly between his teeth. "Then I shall consider it a placebo," he announced, also linking his fingers in his lap.  
"Shall we order some tea?" Cate asked. Truth be told, she was as parched as a desert, but now that the ice had been broken, she wanted to see what else she could get out of Mycroft's relatives, and a conversation always flowed more persuasively when hot tea was involved.

"So," she said after their teas had been poured. "I have very little knowledge of my intended as a child," she said. "Are there any salutary anecdotes you could share?" she added. "Purely for the better understanding of my affianced, of course," she said disarmingly, sipping her Earl Grey.

The General and the Farmer exchanged a wry glance as Mycroft leaned forward. "An unnecessary use of your time," he assured them. "Plus I feel discretion may be the better part of valour, at this point."

"Nonsense, Mycroft," Uncle George leaned back in his chair. "Any woman sufficiently demented to take you on as a husband should have all the information she needs before the final step," he said, smiling roguishly, winking at Cate.

"I am mindful of the time the youth decided to rewrite the OED by getting two identical copies of the dictionary and cutting both of them into the relevant definitions and re-ordering them in an order more pleasing to his nascent sensitivities," Kim waved his unlit pipe in the air. "What a bloody_ mess_ that was. Couldn't open the office door for weeks lest the word _codpiece_ become unnaturally connected to _artillery_," he shook his head in disbelief. "The whole house was in an uproar every time the wind blew."

"Why two copies?" Cate was curious.

"So I could have the definitions from both sides of the page," Mycroft looked whimsical. "It was a bigger job than I anticipated."

"And let us not forget Mrs Havelock-Jones," the General nodded portentously. Uncle Kim made a silent 'aha' as the memory arrived for him. Mycroft sighed and looked long-suffering.

"If you insist on revealing my every peccadillo today, then I will see about a table for dinner, as we shall certainly still be here," he muttered balefully.

Cate was unsure what to do. Clearly the story of this woman was momentous, but it was equally clear that Mycroft wasn't overly happy about having the account made public at this point. If she were sensitive to his feelings, she would change the subject; move the conversation along.

"Mrs Havelock-Jones?" she inquired, innocently. "Sounds like a serious person."

Both Kim and George erupted into loud snorts of laughter, Kim sniggering around his pipe-stem, the General muffling his laughter behind a cough.

Mycroft gave her a dreadful look.

"It was all a monumental misunderstanding," he explained. "There was a lending-library that had a section devoted to books considered unsuitable for those of tender years and which was, as a result, disinclined to lend me certain texts I was desirous of reading."

"So what did you do and where does this Havelock-Jones woman come into the picture?" Cate was lost. What could possibly be so amusing about a library?

"Mycroft was so angry when they told him to come back as an adult, that's precisely what he decided to do," George rubbed the side of a hand over an eye, wiping moisture away. "His voice was still too boyish to pull off a man's disguise …"

"And so the lad frocked himself up and went in as a woman; wig, headscarf and all," Kim added. "And the stockings, _dear God above_ …" he closed his eyes, gurgling.

"_Mrs Havelock-Jones_," George held his chest, laughing hard.

Raising her eyebrows, Cate kept her face totally impassive as she turned her head to look at her beloved.

"I got the books I wanted," Mycroft had folded his arms and was looking distinctly unamused.

"Only because the library staff were too far gone with hysterics to say _no_, my dear boy," the General was going pink with laughter.

"How old were you when you did this?" Cate bit the inside of her cheek in order not to add _too_ much to his discomfort.

"Thirteen. I was _thirteen_, and now it's all very funny; shall we move on?" his tone was hopeful, his gaze on the edge of cautionary.

Closing her eyes, Cate tried to imagine a juvenile Mycroft decked out as a 1970's housewife. "I expect you looked adorable," she smiled. There was renewed choking laughter.

Mycroft's expression was now well into retaliation territory and Cate realised she might be the one to come off the worse for it.

"Don't look at me like that," she reached for his hand. "You started it," she grinned. "And I'm sure there are one or two stories you could tell me about your relatives, if you felt the urge to do so?"

Both the uncles had regained their composure and sat, half-smiles on their faces as they recalled fond memories.

"The things you did, Mycroft," Kim shook his head, smiling at the memories. "Remember when you wanted to build a bridge across to the island in the middle of the pond at the farm? You assembled all those pieces of wood and spent hours, literally _hours_ tying them all meticulously together, pontoon-style, until you were ready?"

"And then I floated the entire thing out onto the water, and it almost made it to land in the centre, except the geese found it …" Mycroft's eyes were unfocused, looking back in time.

"And decided you had made them a perfectly wonderful floating roost and wouldn't let you cross – nipped you every time you tried to walk past them?" Kim smiled again. "And of course, Sherlock was around by then, always wanting to tag along beside his big brother."

The expression on Mycroft's face turned reflective and Cate squeezed his fingers. "Life moves on," she murmured.

"So you see, Catherine," the General sounded perfectly serious, "what you are getting yourself into. Are you quite sure you want this boy of ours?"

"Hardly a boy, Uncle George," Mycroft's expression was wry as he turned to look at her, wondering what she would say.

"I cannot imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else, George," she said, turning and staring into a pair of deep blue eyes. "All the things you've said have merely increased his attractiveness to me, and I thank you for it."

"Darling Cate," Mycroft's voice was husky as he gazed at her.

Kim and George looked at each other and nodded.

###

"Then we are agreed?" Mycroft looked at her across the table in his kitchen. It was Sunday and they were at his townhouse where they spent most of their time these days, drinking coffee and reading the papers.

"If you are happy with the arrangements," Cate sipped the aromatic black liquid. "Suits me."

"We'll go for the fifteenth?"

"Of next month?"

"It's a Wednesday … does that matter, my love?" Mycroft reached across for her fingers.

"No, it has no importance, really. What time?"

"I thought perhaps around eleven-thirty in the morning, then we might have a pleasant lunch and spend the rest of the day relaxing and enjoying ourselves. What do you think?"

"Sounds perfect," Cate smiled dreamily. "Will that be sufficient time for everything to be arranged?"

"Oh yes, I should imagine so," his fingertips toyed with hers. "Would you like to see the venue before the day, just so you can picture any additional arrangements you might like?"

"I think that would be lovely; can we go today?"

"Thought you might want to see it today," he said, a little smug. "I've asked them to make sure we can get in."

The first tiny prickle flickered over her antenna.

"Get in? We need permission to _get in_?"

"It's a private garden, my darling," Mycroft stood and walked around the table, lifting her up to his chest and wrapping arms carefully around her back until she nestled close. He liked these moments; soft and without expectation. He breathed her deep into his lungs.

"Is it nearby?" she was curious. This was the first time he'd mentioned a specific place. It wouldn't be a public park, so maybe it was one of those summer-exhibition gardens. That would be wonderful – to be married in a beautiful place.

"A brief trip; only a few minutes away by car," he smiled. "But I think you'll like it."

"Do I need to get tidied up?" Cate looked down at her faded jeans and Pink Floyd t-shirt. "I don't want to look like something the cat dragged in if it's friends of yours."

His smile had her antenna prickling again. "No need to dress up," he said easily. "I'm going like this."

Mycroft's 'like this' was at the smarter end of the casual scale, but if he said there was no need to change, she'd take his word.

Sliding into the Jaguar, Mycroft reached for her hand, holding her fingers tight. "I think you'll like the spot I've picked, but you must promise to tell me if you don't, you will promise me, my love?" he suddenly seemed anxious.

"Of course, if it's really not going to make me feel happy, I'll certainly let you know, but I have great faith in your good taste," Cate smiled, relaxing back into the seat, wondering what on earth he'd found.

Not really taking in the direction they travelled, she only saw that they'd gone down Park Lane, crossed Piccadilly and were heading along Constitution Hill, when the car slowed and indicated left.

There was only one thing at the bottom of Constitution Hill for which a car might indicate left. Her antenna suddenly springing into massive, full-on alert, Cate sat rigidly upright in the back seat of the Jaguar, her face a mask of shock as they turned into one of the lesser gates of Buckingham Palace.

The driver stopped at the security checkpoint as Mycroft rolled down his window, allowing one of the three guards to swipe his Ultra-card, waiting until they were announced acceptable and waved on through. Apparently the driver knew exactly where to go, and where and how to park. Cate wondered just how many times the Jaguar had made this 'brief trip'.

"Come along, love of my life, let me show you where I want you to marry me." Pulling her out of the car, Mycroft held her hand and walked confidently and without pause, around the corner of the enormous square building, along past luxuriant side-gardens and down to the main park at the rear of the palace.

There was an enormous expanse of gorgeously-manicured green grass sloping very gently down towards a small lake at the far end. Still holding her hand, Mycroft strode down towards the water, even as Cate muttered questions about the Queen and the royal family and trespassing and Pink Floyd t-shirts and being shot. He stopped, turned back to the palace and waved at it generally.

"See the Royal Standard?" he asked, pointing to the empty mast. Cate squinted, but she saw nothing.

"Nope," she shook her head. Can't see it … _oh_, of course. I'm an idiot."

"But you're my idiot," Mycroft leaned down and kissed her warmly, before he turned and continued to pull her along beside him all the way down to the lake.

"_Here_," he said, turning, lifting his arms up in the air. "There's going to be a large podium built half on land and half over the lake as well as a separate stand for the musicians over there," he waved over to his left, "and a series of marquees further up the lawn for the luncheon. "Seating," he said, walking down towards the water, "will be on both sides of a central aisle. And at the end, at the podium," he grabbed her hand again, leading her to the grassy edge of the lake before turning to gaze into her face. "Here is where you get to tell everyone we know that I've not been insane or hallucinating these past months, and that you, Catherine Adin, really do want to marry me." Mycroft's breathing was a little uneven. "Does this suit you, my absolute darling?"

He stared down into a pair of wide brown eyes, waiting for her decision.

"You're a genius," Cate slid her arms around his neck. "_Genius_," she kissed him. "But how on earth did you manage to swing Buck House for our wedding? I mean," she shook her head, totally bewildered. "I didn't think it was open to ordinary weddings, only royal ones?"

"A very old and dear friend heard we wanted to get married in a beautiful garden, and she offered hers," Mycroft's smile was relaxed. "Tell me if you like it or no, Catie," he said, softly. "Tell me if you will marry me here."

There were no words and no time to think. All she could do was hold him tight, so very, very tight. "I do," she whispered.

###

"And you're saying there's been a slight change of plan?" Anthea sipped her coffee and took a deep breath. "Okay. Hit me with the bad news first."

"You know I said I wanted a low-key kind of thing, and Mycroft suggested a garden party?" Cate inhaled the steam from her espresso, enjoying the fragrance. "Well it's turned out to be the garden at Buckingham Palace, there's going to be masses of guests, a stand-full of musicians _and_ …" she paused, slightly agonised. "I'm having bridesmaids," she sighed. "So I suppose I better have the dress and Mycroft needs to have the suit as does Sherlock and John to go with it," she looked up over her cup. "Do you hate me now?"

"Still waiting for the bad news," Anthea was busy with her Blackberry. Pressing one final key, she set it down on the table between them with a soft _click_ as she fixed Cate with a bright look. "Do you honestly think I've worked for Mycroft Holmes for the last four years without knowing to build in contingencies for every operation, and I really do mean _every_ operation?" she said.

"How many did you have lined up for this one?" Cate smiled in relief that the younger woman wasn't about to bite through her phone.

"Four," she smiled. "And you've only gone and picked the one I wanted the most," she added. "Now will you come with me to a very special shop and try on one _single_ dress, please?"

Unable to refuse, Cate got into the cab Anthea hailed and they zoomed quietly up Park Lane into Connaught Street, stopping outside Ritva Westenius. Ushering the bride-to-be through the door, Anthea slid an unassuming white card under the eyes of the receptionist and asked to see _La Directrice_.

Within moments, they were brought to a luxurious and very large fitting room where Cate was handed a silk slip and asked to change, and to return wearing only the silk shift and nothing else.

Nodding acquiescence, Cate did as she was bid, emerging a few minutes later to be posed on a raised dais. She closed her eyes as a light piece of cotton was wrapped delicately across her face, as if it were a very wide blindfold.

"To make sure there are no marks on the fabric," Anthea whispered.

Cate felt several hands at work as her arms were lifted as a sensation of fabric drifted across her body, closing in on her shape as a fine zip was fastened all the way up to a point between her shoulder-blades. Her arms were lifted again and another sensation of billowing lightness seems to float over her. Cate felt several small adjustments being made to the hang of the dress and then … nothing. The cotton was gently removed from her face, although her eyes were still closed.

"Take a look, Professor," Anthea sounded incredibly self-righteous.

Cate opened her eyes. Opened them wider.

_Breathed_.

Breathed again.

_Oh_.

###

And thus, two days from the actual event, Mycroft was sitting in the Diogenes, wondering what colour tie he should wear to his wedding.

He had asked Cate several times what colour dress she had selected, only to be told it wasn't white.

"But, my love, I really do need to know what colour tie to wear to best harmonise with what will undoubtedly be a glorious outfit," he tried again. "Not even the suggestion of a hint?"

"Then wear grey," Cate smiled ravishingly. To his eyes, she was more beautiful each day. "Pale grey goes with everything, doesn't it?" she laughed.

"But you won't tell me the colour of your gown?" he said, to be sure.

"If I did, Anthea would sell me into servitude and resign her post with you," Cate raised her eyebrows. "She told me to tell you this if you kept asking."

"Hmmm," Mycroft narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. There were always _ways_ to find out certain little details. He wondered if involving MI5 would be considered frivolous: a number of their people owed him certain … favours.

"How are the suits progressing?" she attempted to change the subject.

"Final fittings this afternoon," he sniffed, unmollified. "Morning grey, as we decided, although the final choice of tie has not yet been made, subject to ascertaining the bride's _preference_," he rounded on her. "Tell me, Catie," he caught her to him dramatically, dipping her perilously close to the ground and nuzzling her neck. "Tell me the colour of your dress and I'll leave you in peace," he added, nibbling her soft skin.

_It must be Spring_, she thought, helpless and laughing against him. _Spring and the wedding_ that was taking him so far from his normal reserve. Cate hadn't known how romantic a man she was marrying; but realised, he had never had the chance to be so before in his life. No wonder it was all going to his head.

"The Geneva Convention distinctly forbids physical durance," she clawed her way upright, wriggling out of his grasp. "And since, despite my best efforts, we seem to be doing this thing by the book,' she added. "We should stay apart on Tuesday night, so we can meet at the garden without you having the opportunity to see me beforehand and deciding to make a swift run for it to South America."

"Apart for the entire day and the night as well?" The notion displeased him. It seemed excessive. "You want this?"

"Not really, but at least I'll have the satisfaction of knowing you won't have seen my dress before I arrive," she smiled, again. "I also have to make sure my sister's family are well-settled and the girls are _au fait_ with their roles," she blinked. "Anthea has taken them under both her wings and they're loving everything about it," she said. "I think Neve might end up with a pair of flibbertigibbets if she's not careful."

"I think your sister can handle anything that comes her way," he brightened. "What colour are the girls' outfits?"

"They're not white, either," Cate shook her head. "Stop asking, or I'll tell Anthea."

"Hardly cricket, my love," he made one last attempt.

"Telling Anthea …"

###

Waking in her own apartment for the last time, Cate's heart thudded as she realised this was _the_ day. She had set her alarm, but was already awake as the dawn-light drew a line through an open curtain.

The sound of a key in the front-door was immediately followed by Anthea's greeting as she zoomed in, bearing coffee, the scent so strong, Cate wondered how many double-shots she was about to drink.

"Up and at 'em, sleeping beauty," the younger woman banged into the bedroom, handing over a sloshing paper cup. "Lots to do, places to be, people to render breathless with astonishment …"

"Anthea, we've got _hours_ yet," Cate uncapped the cup and inhaled.

"Not _spare_ hours," she plonked herself on the end of the bed. "Got to go to the bank and everything."

"_Bank_? Why the bank?"

Anthea told her.

###

Sherlock and John were still at breakfast when Mycroft arrived. Their suits had been delivered the previous day and were still on the hangers, swinging carefully from the tops of doors.

Sitting casually in John's chair, Mycroft placed two creamy-white _boutonniere_ Gardenia blossoms, as yet unopened, for the Best Man and Escort of the Bride.

"So you're really going through with this then, _eh_?" John grinned, crunching a piece of toast. "Last opportunity to make good your escape, Mycroft," he added, cheerfully. "Call the RAF to organise a flight; Sherlock and I will cover for you as long as we can."

"Very droll, Doctor," Mycroft examined his shoe. "But as Best Man, traditionally my brother would have an obligation to marry Cate in my place," he looked up suddenly, a wolfish grin on his face. "I fear he would not survive the ceremony."

"Never _fear_, dear brother," Sherlock turned in his seat, "that you and Cate are already _defacto_ husband-and-wife should render this little endeavour relatively painless, assuming, of course …" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, fixing his elder brother with a tangible stare. "… She actually turns up."

"My affianced has made her feelings on the matter of our union entirely clear," Mycroft remained urbane and composed. "I am fully confident of Cate's constancy," he smiled brightly. "Tease if you must."

Twisting out of his seat, Sherlock leaned over the elder Holmes' shoulder. "Oh, I feel we definitely must, Mycroft," his voice subdued but on the cusp of amusement. "We really _must_."

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft stood, walking to John's side. "These are the rings for the ceremony. As I am now beginning to question the sincerity of my brother's actions, I must ask you to supervise these items until the moment they must needs be relinquished into his hands lest they be pawned for scientific trinkets or abandoned recklessly in some unspecified Asian restaurant."

"Thai, Mycroft, _Thai_ restaurant," Sherlock quipped, leaning over and snaffling the ring-box from his flatmate's open hand, opening the lid and giving a brief whistle. Cate's Art Deco platinum and diamond ring lay beside a heavy band of the same metal. "And these would indeed supply me with a fair selection of trinkets," he nodded appreciatively.

"In which case, I shall ensure they arrive as requested," John leaned over and stole the box back. "Your brain is like a sieve for certain things," he added, finishing his toast.

Sherlock stood, his eyes virtually level with Mycroft's.

"Are you truly ready for this step, brother?" he asked. "There is no shame in changing your mind, even at the eleventh-hour."

Meeting a pair of blue-grey eyes with his own, Mycroft's answer was a silent shout. He smiled.

Raising his eyebrows, Sherlock nodded, taking a sharp breath. "Very well, then," he clapped his hands together. "Let us get you to the lake on time."

"What time's the car coming for us?" John was inspecting the rings; they looked expensive.

"Ten-forty five, sharp," Mycroft stepped towards the door to the flat. "I will meet you at the marquee in the Palace gardens no later than eleven, please, Sherlock," he turned before leaving. "Please,' he said, quietly.

"Leave it to me, Mycroft," John stood, smiling. "I'll have him there for you both."

Drawing in a deep breath, Mycroft nodded again, leaving them in peace.

Lifting Cate's diamond ring from the velvet case, Sherlock looked speculative. "This would probably pay our rent for two years, you realise," he murmured.

"If you want one of these, then you're going to have to find a wealthy woman to marry," John took the ring delicately from his friend's fingers, returning it to the box. "Not that either of us will ever get married, I doubt," John smiled lopsidedly. "So let's enjoy the occasion vicariously."

"You, John? Enjoy a wedding?" Sherlock laughed. "It's certainly the last one I expect to attend."

###

Cate wondered if Mycroft had any influence with the weather, as the day seemed to be turning out picture-perfect; a beautiful June day; big pale blue sky; puffy white clouds, singing birds. Not quite ready to put the dress on just yet, she wandered around her half-empty apartment. Most of the good stuff had already made its way to Mycroft's townhouse: her two massive leather sofas; much of her artwork and books; her musical instruments, clothes. This was the end of living alone and she was feeling a touch nostalgic.

"The girls are here to get changed," Anthea stood back as Lily and Rose flew into the main body of the space, hugging Cate with great excitement. "The hairdresser and beautician will be here in the next ten minutes or so, so shall we dress, ladies?"

"You two get changed first," Cate waved them towards her bedroom. "Take your time and enjoy the experience," she smiled at the sheer thrill on the twins' faces. What it was to be eighteen and getting dressed up for a big occasion.

"You need a valium or a double-gin?" Anthea nudged her. "I have both."

Laughing, Cate shook her head. "Now that the moment is finally here," she said. "I'm feeling oddly sentimental. It's all a bit momentous."

"It's going to be marvellous and you're both going to have a fantastic day," the brunette grinned as the girls emerged clad in their fine feathers.

Of palest _eau de nil_, their identical silk gowns brushed the tops of their matching satin ballet flats. The close-fitted bodices had wide necklines, meeting across the point of each shoulder, flowing down to sheer sleeves just below the elbows; the waistline flared down into a slender swirl of silk that rustled as they moved. Rose wore a wide silk sash of deep rose-pink, while Lily's was as white as her name. Rose wore a necklace and earrings shining with the pink of rose-quartz, and Lily wore pearls. Their burnished red-auburn hair was unfettered and rippled in the sunlight.

They looked quite stunning.

"Going to have to up the security, methinks," Anthea lifted her eyebrows. "You two are a traffic-hazard."

Cate's doorbell sounded. "I'll go," Anthea nodded. "Probably the hairdresser."

"Girls, you are lovely," Cate held their hands in hers. "Your mother will be speechless."

"That'll be a first," Lily laughed. "Mum's not usually lost for words."

"There's a first time for even something like that," Cate grinned, turning as both the hairdresser and the cosmetologist brought their cases into the room, smiling at the girls.

"Your turn now," Anthea pushed her towards the bedroom. "Let's get you dressed."

###

The podium, about sixty-feet across, had turned out exactly as he had imagined it would, the lake-bound section supported by a series of heavy underwater staves so that it barely vibrated even when several large men had been setting up the floral decorations. There was a broad swathe of seating on the bank-side, easily enough for the one hundred and fifty-or-so expected guests, flanking a wide, grassy aisle, each seat draped in creamy-white satin and decorated with fragrant orange-blossom. There were lines of flowering Gardenia tubs framing each of the distinct areas, especially along the edge of the lake, with huge floral arrangements at the corners of each of the three various white marquees. The scent of warm, trampled grass and the low hum of bees added an almost pastoral mood. The marquees themselves were tall, white-chateau type affairs, with long pale pennants streaming lazily in the light breeze. It promised to be a warm day.

It was exactly as he had planned, exactly as he had imagined it in his thoughts. All the scene lacked were the guests, who would be arriving shortly, and the woman he had made this for. Sitting at a white-linened table in the shade of one of the big tents, Mycroft sighed with something he felt must surely be pleasure.

"Would you care for a glass of champagne, sir?" a liveried waiter stood at his shoulder with a flute of fine wine on a silver tray.

"I believe I will, thank you," Mycroft smiled, sipping the chilly fizz. He found himself sighing again, either the bubbles or the atmosphere making him strangely restless.

There was the muted sound of voices as people began making their way down to the lake. Mycroft stayed in the shadow of the marquee for the moment as glasses of champagne were delivered with charm and panache, as small groups of people met up and began conversations with friends and family.

Standing, he placed the empty glass on the table and lifted his Hunter from the fob-pocket of his waistcoat. _Not long now_. He sighed yet again, straightening the cuffs of his immaculate pale grey suit and for once, felt quite the dandy in his crisp white shirt, pearly-grey silk cravat and platinum pin. The faint perfume of Cate's favourite flower warmed in his buttonhole. Tugging his jacket a little straighter, he walked out into the early summer sunshine and prepared to meet his future.

###

It was time.

The splendid Silver Cloud Rolls Royce waited; beribboned and decked out for a wedding. Cate manoeuvred in first, with Rose and Lily beside her, careful not to crush anything. Anthea was in the front seat with the driver, dressed in her own fine plumes of deepest amethyst satin and lace.

It was time.

Pulling slowly away from the building that she'd known as home and harbour for a number of years, Cate felt herself on the edge of emotion, but took a deep breath and let the feeling flow through her and away. It was not the moment for tears.

Staring out through the crystal-clear glass, she watched the people on the street, other cars as they passed; every onlooker aware they were watching a bride going to her wedding. Cate saw smiles on their faces; people liked weddings.

The few minutes of the journey went by in a haze and before she realised it was over, the car was drawing to a stately halt in the Royal grounds. A group of palace officiaries and staff had gathered at the corner of the building to watch the small procession as they left the car and walked through the lush side-gardens. Breathing slowly to keep her thundering heart from frightening the girls, Cate inhaled the perfume of roses and lilacs and lilies and felt wonderful. She spotted a grey-suited figure at the far end of the gardens. _John_.

"My God, Cate," he murmured, his eyes taking in the scene. "You look … you _all_ look outstanding," he smiled, shaking his head a little. "Mycroft isn't going to know what's hit him."

"That was rather the plan, Doctor," Anthea grinned. "Is everything as arranged?"

"Everything is in place," John nodded, his eyes still sweeping between the twins and Cate.

"How are you holding up?" he asked her quietly. "Butterflies?"

"Not so much now," she took a deep breath, "not now I'm actually here."

"Are you ready to do this, then?" he asked, smiling all over again. "Last chance to change your mind," he said, offering her his arm.

Sliding her left hand into the crook of his elbow, she squeezed his arm. "Yes; let's do this," she nodded, taking another deep breath and stepping out of the garden towards the top of the lawn.

###

Seated in the appropriate seat at the front, Mycroft fought a recurring desire to keep turning his head to see if Cate had arrived. Seated beside him, Sherlock had spent the last few minutes informing him of certain interesting observations he had made regarding the assembled guests, both family and friends. There was a decent-sized cluster of Cate's university friends and colleagues, too.

"Lestrade's here," he muttered. "I assume Cate invited him?" he asked.

"I believe she did," Mycroft flicked invisible dust from his cuff. "He was of significant support to her during the Stenton affair," there was a faint twist to his mouth. "At one point I wondered if she might be partial to him."

"I am convinced Cate has considered no other suitor since she met you," Sherlock's voice was muted. "I have seen no sign whatsoever that her affections were engaged elsewhere, not even for the briefest of intervals," he added. "Having second thoughts?"

Meeting his brother's eyes, Mycroft's expression was indulgent. "Don't be an arse, Sherlock," he turned his face towards the front, an easy smile on his lips.

A flutter of movement near the top of the lawn flickered in his vision and the younger Holmes focused his gaze. _Ah_.

"Cate's here," he said, turning back. "I have clear instructions from your assistant to make certain you do not look at your bride until she arrives at the podium, so no peeking," he said.

"Really, brother," Mycroft felt an immediate compulsion to look, restraining himself by main force of will.

Sherlock watched over his shoulder as the bride's party reached the main marquee, passing through it and towards the podium's aisle.

"_Oh, Mycroft_," his whisper was heartfelt. "Mother would have approved."

The musicians, who had been performing an accomplished selection of Bach and Schubert, paused their recital, beginning instead to play a wonderfully limpid version of Handel's _Air_.

"I think you may safely look now," Sherlock stood slowly, an oddly serene smile on his face.

Standing and turning in the one movement, Mycroft Holmes saw Cate for the first time since they had parted yesterday and his heart sang.

She was smiling directly at him and his throat closed with unconstrained longing. Preceded by the two girls in the American style, Cate walked closer, as lovely as he had ever seen her, a hand resting on John's arm. She had been quite truthful: her gown wasn't white.

It was silver.

A subtle, lustrous platinum strapless sheath which clung perfectly to her from _décolletage_ to mid-thigh, easing into the faintest of flares above matching court shoes. She was also wearing the gauziest, most fragile and transparent white silk-chiffon wrap, which lay off her shoulders, threaded through her elbows and brushed the grass at her feet. It was as if she were draped in white mist.

A delicate, crescent-shaped corsage of Gardenia and tiny white orchids was pinned above her left breast, Mycroft saw, while encircling her throat was his mother's diamond choker, its central tear-drop pendent resting against her soft flesh, identical diamonds in her ears. She was beautiful, wonderful, _glorious_. And she was here for him.

Unrealised, his hand had closed tight on his brother's arm.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I will probably be needing that again at some point," he muttered _sotto voce_.

Cate smiled as she reached Mycroft's side, taking the arm he offered. Her touch was as warm on his hand as it was on his heart. She smiled and for a moment, the world was perfect.

And there was a wedding.

**The End**

For all the romantics (you know who you are).

My thanks to everyone for the continued appreciation and support.


End file.
